


Ordinary Boys

by impasto



Category: Panic At The Disco
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, F/M, Genderfuck, M/M, Sexswap, Transgender
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-06-16
Updated: 2007-06-16
Packaged: 2017-10-09 00:25:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/81028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impasto/pseuds/impasto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ryan isn't a girl, even when he is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ordinary Boys

Ryan doesn't notice anything different when he wakes in the middle of the night, bleary-eyed and squinting in the dark. The carpet pile sinks beneath his toes before they make contact with the cold bathroom tile. He doesn't bother with the light, sitting down heavily on the toilet and exhaling, barely awake. Brendon rolls toward him when Ryan crawls back under the covers, a warm hand burrowing up under his t-shirt. It makes Ryan smile, _touchwhore_, and he presses his feet against the warmth of Brendon's calves.

::::

The shriek of the alarm clock jerks Ryan awake, and it's lucky the damn thing's across the room or else he'd throw it out the window. Actually, it probably has more to do with Brendon than luck. He's taken to moving the fucking things out of Ryan's reach ever since he threw Brendon's travel alarm clock out the window of their van.

Ryan sits up, rubbing his eyes and stumbling over to the dresser to shut the alarm off. Brendon's already awake, sprawled in one of the chairs and eating a Pop-Tart. He holds his hand out in offering, but Ryan shakes his head. It's way too early for sugar. "Caffeine."

He stretches, and then Brendon's on his feet, a tiny furrow between his brows. "You okay, Ryan?"

"'Course." Ryan cocks his head.

"You sure, you're not sick?" Brendon steps into Ryan's space, and there are pink crumbs clinging to the corner of his mouth. Ryan thinks about licking them off, but Brendon's studying a spot below Ryan's chin, and Ryan's not awake enough to play Brendon's games.

"What?" Exasperation tinges Ryan's voice as Brendon's fingers land on his throat, barely touching. Ryan swats his hand away. "That tickles." But Brendon's not paying attention, or maybe he's paying too much attention. His fingers skim Ryan's sides. "C'mon, get off."

Brendon looks up, eyes wide. "You're...something's different. Not right." Ryan tries to shrug him off – "No, hey," – but Brendon propels him into the bathroom, holds him still in front of the mirror.

"See?"

Ryan blinks, confused. He can't see anything different, except for the fact that Brendon's reflection is motionless for more than thirty seconds. "Look, don't fuck with me."

Brendon shakes his head, "No, I'm not," and it's freaking Ryan out a bit to see him so puzzled and intent. "I just can't figure it out." He winds his arms around Ryan's waist, palms splaying and searching as he tucks his chin over Ryan's shoulder.

In the mirror, Ryan sees the tip of Brendon's tongue poke through his teeth. It's too much, too early, too fucking weird, and Ryan starts squirming under the scrutiny. Brendon's hand slips, between Ryan's thighs, and just as Ryan yelps, "Brendon!" Brendon snatches his hand away, leaps back as if he's burned himself.

"Fuck! You're a girl!"

::::

"You okay, Ry?" Spencer's voice. There's a soft thud against the door, but the knob doesn't turn, and Ryan's thankful for that. Spencer knows. "You need help?"

_Yes_.

"No!" Ryan stares at the mirror and pulls his mouth into a frown. He blows the hair out of his eyes, palms pressing heavy on the edge of the sink. He doesn't look different, not really, and he doesn't feel any different. If he looks closely, he can see his throat is a bit smoother, and when he leans forward there's a slight weight that he's not used to. Ryan tugs at the collar of his shirt and peers down. Sure enough, tiny but _there_: breasts. He swallows a groan, closes his eyes. There's no need for further investigation, because Brendon's already proved that Ryan's changed, that he's a freak now, and Ryan desperately wants to hit something.

_Tap tap_. The knock on the door is almost too quiet to hear, and no matter how much Ryan would like to hide in bathroom forever, it's not fair to leave Spence worrying like that. Ryan unlocks the door, cracks it open a few inches.

But it's Jon, not Spencer, and Ryan can see Brendon behind him, jumping up on his tip-toes. Before Ryan can shut the door, Jon sticks his foot out and murmurs, "Hey."

Ryan glares over Jon's head. "You told everyone?"

"You locked me out of the bathroom!" Brendon crosses his arms, and there's Spencer again, stepping in front of Brendon, arms spread like a traffic controller. Damage control, more like; Ryan's tempted to launch himself at Brendon. But Spencer's looking at him like he did the first time Ryan showed up outside his bedroom window at half past midnight, sleeping bag in tow. Jon's looking down now, his shoe wedged between the door and the frame, and Ryan can't fault either of them. He takes a breath and opens the door.

::::

"Look, I'm sorry, it just took me by surprise, alright? I mean, you're a _girl_."

Ryan wraps his arms around his knees, curling in on himself. "Not a _girl_, Brendon. I have girl parts, but that doesn't mean..." Shit. He doesn't know what the fuck it means, but it's certainly not whatever Brendon thinks.

"Hey, look," Spencer interjects, "it'll be - we'll deal with it. You're alright, Ryan." He actually looks at Ryan, holds his eyes, and that's more convincing than what he's saying. Ryan takes a breath and tilts his head to see Jon sitting cross-legged on the mussed bedspread, the expression on his face so placid that it makes Ryan smile a little. Like this is as normal as anything else they do. Make-up, sure, noisy bandmates fucking, whatever, just get earplugs. One of them suddenly attacked by estrogen? No worries. Jon's unflappable, and in its own weird way it helps.

Ryan still has no idea what the hell's going on, but as long as he's got someone on his side, he'll handle it somehow.

::::

Ryan puts off going to bed that night, brushing his teeth twice, listening for Brendon getting settled, or as settled as he gets. He crouches by his suitcase, absently folding his shirts until Brendon makes a wheedling sound. Ryan stills and looks up, gaze skittering over Brendon's face, down his arm, and fixing on his outstretched fingers.

"Come to bed," Brendon says quietly. When Ryan doesn't move, he adds, "We're up early tomorrow."

And Ryan goes, lies on his back next to Brendon and tries to breathe. He can't shake the tension, even though Brendon manages to do a a decent job of giving him space, just one hand resting on Ryan's shoulder. He presses a kiss to Ryan's temple and murmurs another apology before falling back and closing his eyes.

It should be comforting, it should be _fine_, but Ryan's still watching the ceiling long after Brendon falls asleep. He starts to drift, at last, and then Brendon stirs, his arm stretching across Ryan's chest. He flinches, instinctively shoving Brendon's hand away, hard enough to waken him. Shit.

Now it's Ryan's turn to apologize. "I - I have breasts," he says contritely.

Brendon blinks sleepily and grins. "That you do," he replies, voice thick. "What do you say, A-cup? Double A, like batteries?"

Ryan swallows. He knows that whatever flimsy filter Brendon usually has between his thoughts and his mouth is long gone right now, and he knows too that Brendon means well, trying to make light of this, but it still stings. Ryan doesn't want breasts, and he definitely doesn't want to think about them. He murmurs, "Go back to sleep," and turns his back on Brendon, pummelling the pillow beneath his cheek.

It's not long before Brendon's breath evens out again, and Ryan tries to sleep, he really does, but eventually he slinks out of their bed and pulls the comforter back from the unused double. Burrowing under the covers, he catches snatches of sleep until the dawn light creeps through the curtains.

::::

Ryan's awake long before Brendon; even the alarm clock is still a distant threat when he gets up, too restless to stay in bed. He fixes his bedding as best he can, smoothing out the sheets and tucking the coverlet under the pillows. It's not all right, but close enough. He just hopes Brendon won't notice.

Guilt settles in his stomach, nudging up against the apprehension that he still can't shake. Ryan takes a step, then two, and crawls back into bed with Brendon. He shuffles closer, trying to quell the urge to simply leave, maybe take refuge in the coffee bar in the lobby, anything to put this off. It's ridiculous, because _this_ should be easy, him and Brendon.

Ryan touches him, fingertips grazing tentatively over the rise of Brendon's shoulder, over and down into the curve of his collar bone. It feels like the first time, even though it's really nothing like. Nothing soft about that, nothing that scared him either. That was right, and this is...something else.

But Ryan wants, desperately, for this to be right, to be normal again. He tilts in, a breath away from Brendon's jawline, coarse with stubble, and he's working up the courage to kiss the spot when Brendon's eyes open. Ryan waits breathlessly, but so does Brendon, holding still long enough for Ryan's lips to ghost over his skin, barely there.

Ryan exhales slowly, fingers flexing around Brendon's elbow, and Brendon shifts to brush their mouths together. Ryan closes his eyes, doesn't shy away, but it's too much like shutting Brendon out, and that's not what he wants. Ryan blinks, sees the tiny creases in the corner of Brendon's eyes, feels his lip fit between Ryan's own, and it's so close, Ryan can do this. If he doesn't think, it's just like any other night, teasing his hands over Brendon's chest, thumb curving along a rib, and the little noises escaping from Brendon that make Ryan part his lips and lick every sound into his own mouth. Yes, almost.

But Brendon's never this passive, never this _careful_ in bed. Ryan ignores the thought, chases it along Brendon's throat, flickers his tongue across Brendon's nipple, but it follows him, insistent. _Not the same_. He glances up through his lashes, finds Brendon's eyes wide and dark, and Ryan can't feel the rise of Brendon's chest beneath his chin because Brendon's holding his breath.

"C'mere," Brendon murmurs, _finally_, and gently tugs Ryan up, curving a hand around his neck, _thank you_, and Ryan's so relieved when Brendon nudges their foreheads together, with the little curl of his mouth that always translates into filthy, hot, wonderful things. Ryan feels a rush of heat and breathes, "thank you," like a prayer.

Brendon pulls Ryan close, closer, perfect, to whisper low in his ear, "I'm here, hmmm. This is good, we're good," and Ryan melts a little. Brendon skims his thumb over Ryan's cheekbone, and if his skin feels even smoother than usual, Ryan blocks it out, nuzzles Brendon to feel the rasp of his stubble. Brendon growls softly, cradles Ryan's head and holds him near. Lips move over his skin, a hand curls around his hip, and Ryan almost doesn't hear the words muffled against his throat, "Maybe, one day, we can have real sex."

But he does hear. Ryan freezes, jaw clenching, and before he can think he's halfway across the room. He doesn't say a word as he throws a few remaining things into his luggage, and he doesn't look back at Brendon as he drags his suitcase out into the hall. The _click_ of the lock echoes in Ryan's ears.

It's early, still, too early to call Spence, but Ryan just slides down the wall, sitting on the floor next to his case. He studies the pattern of the carpet, tugs a thread loose from the hem of his boxers, and waits.

::::

"Thanks, Jon." Ryan holds the door open, worrying his bottom lip.

"Hey, no problem, man." Jon hauls his own suitcase out of the room and throws a wink back at Ryan and Spencer. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

Ryan manages a weak smile before closing the door, but he sags against the doorjamb. "Fucking Brendon," he mutters. Spence stays quiet, and that's why Ryan came here. He doesn't want questions. Spencer's always aware when something's wrong, but he'll hold his tongue until it blows over, and if it doesn't he'll _tell_ Ryan what the fuck his problems are and how to solve them.

"You wanna shower before we head out?"

Ryan nods, turns to look at Spencer. "Yeah." He lifts his suitcase onto Jon's bed, closest to the door, and rummages for his toiletries and some clothes. It takes him a moment to realize that he's left his shoes back in his – Brendon's – room. Whatever. Ryan will get them from Jon later.

Ryan sets his toothpaste on the bathroom counter and drops his clothes on the floor. Poking his head back out the door, he calls, "Spence?"

"Mmm?" Spencer's hunched over his laptop, brows drawn together in concentration.

"Thanks."

Spencer glances up and his mouth quirks into a smile. "Yeah."

With the turn of a lock Ryan's alone again, hair falling in his eyes. He strips quickly, not looking in the mirror. Stepping into the shower, he waits until steam fogs the glass to duck under the spray, dousing himself.

Water runs down his face and Ryan slicks his hair back, washes it roughly, fingertips digging into his scalp. Rinsing the suds away, Ryan automatically soaps up a washcloth, and for a moment nothing's changed as he scrubs his neck and shoulders, back and legs, and stretches a hand up to wash his armpit. The cloth slides down to follow a natural curve that feels anything but, and Ryan squeezes his eyes shut.

It's like touching someone else, but backwards. He washes skin that's not his own, and when his knuckles brush damp curls below his stomach, Ryan hears Brendon's voice, _real sex_. It cuts through him, and Ryan shakes water from his eyes, shutting the tap off.

::::

Showtime.

The lights are hot, the crowd is enthusiastic, and Ryan's hiding in full view. Anyone would think this is just another night, just another show. Everybody's rocking out, and the dancers gather around Brendon as his fucks the crowd with his voice.

All day, no one's noticed anything different about Ryan, not Zack or the crew or anyone else. It should be a relief, and it is, sort of. But he still knows, and there's no escape. Ryan couldn't wait to get onstage, to do something familiar and feel the energy and just _pretend_ for a little while that everything's okay.

His guitar is a reassuring weight, and it's good to slip into the persona of Ryan Ross, Rock Star. Still, surrounded by thousands of people, he feels absurdly alone. Spencer's up behind his drum kit, Jon's all the way on the other side of the stage, and Brendon's like a barrier between them.

Ryan does manage to sneak over once while Brendon's at the piano; he kneels in front of Jon, who waggles his eyebrows and flashes a bright smile down at him. Ryan laughs, Jon bends to kiss the top of his head, and for a moment everything is grand. He grins at Jon as he backs away, and Ryan's able to play hard, lose himself in the songs, and the rush of performing is still there.

Every once in awhile, though, he feels Brendon's eyes on him, and neither his instrument nor his make-up can shield Ryan. Brendon keeps his distance, for the most part, flirting instead with the girls and singing in Jon's ear until Jon makes a face at Ryan and playfully shoves Brendon away. Brendon shrugs theatrically and turns to blow a kiss to Spencer, belting out the chorus to "Better If You Do." Ryan tries to keep his eyes on his guitar, but suddenly he can't look away from Brendon, can't help gravitating towards him, _wanting_.

And fuck, Brendon sees.

His eyes widen and for a second he just _opens_, they way he does when it's just the two of them and there's no one else to act for. Ryan feels locked in place, helpless, and they can't do this in the middle of a fucking show. He breaks the moment, turns away from Brendon and kicks out at the stage, driving through a guitar lick.

The rest of the show passes in a blur, and before he knows it they're tumbling back into the dressing room, riding high on adrenaline. Jon tackles Ryan onto the couch, sprawling across his lap and looking up at Ryan, still breathing hard. "Good show, Ross."

Ryan nods, "Yeah," and sticks his leg out as Spencer nears. Spencer rolls his eyes and mimes tripping over Ryan, landing next to him on the couch with a groan. "Ew, Spence, you're all sweaty." Ryan wrinkles his nose and Spencer grabs him in a headlock, smothering Ryan until he's half-breathless with laughter and crying, "Uncle! Fuck, uncle." Spencer noogies him before letting go, because he always plays dirty, and Ryan fans himself dramatically. When he opens his eyes, Brendon's standing there, hands loose at his sides. He looks like he wants to say something, but nothing comes out of his mouth, and Ryan blinks, his throat going dry.

Then Jon shifts up onto his elbow and makes a swipe at Brendon, grabbing his arm and tugging him close. "Were you trying to make me go deaf onstage, Urie?" Jon says loudly, and Ryan slips out from under him and Spencer. As he ducks into the washroom to change he hears Brendon retort, "Nah, old man, just making sure you can still hear!" and there are sounds of a scuffle and laughter. It's so close to normal that for a moment Ryan can't breathe, and his hands clench into fists.

::::

Days pass, and then a week. The cities change but Ryan doesn't. It's easy enough to keep up appearances and Ryan even finds himself forgetting from time to time that anything's different at all. A few minutes here and there, when he's half-awake and getting changed or messing with lyrics in his notebook while Spencer plays Guitar Hero.

But then it's almost worse when he remembers again. Ryan doesn't want to get used to this strange body that's not his. He wants his dick back, please, and everything else that comes with it; he wants Brendon back.

Brendon, fuck. They're talking again, sort of, in monosyllabic sentences and in the presence of others, never alone. Brendon abandons his beaten puppy routine, but he's started _acting_ around Ryan, and it's maddening. Ryan wants to yell at him, shove at him, _let me in, you fucker_, but he can't. It's all Ryan's doing, anyway, and he's not even really angry at Brendon anymore. Part of him wishes he still was, because rage is hot and strong and solid, and now he just feels small, almost invisible, and _stuck_. But he can't bring himself to make up with Brendon like they have before, because the problem would still be there. It's out of Ryan's control, and he can't figure out how to bridge the gap, no matter how much he fucking misses the bastard.

He just wants to go back.

::::

Three weeks after Ryan starts sharing a room with Spencer, he finds a plastic bag on his bedspread. Curious, he lifts the handle with a finger.

Ryan's eyes widen and he takes a step back.

There are _sanitary pads_ on his bed. And they're _yellow_.

He sits down on Spencer's bed, eyeing the bag mistrustfully. Should he hide them, or throw them out, or –

The sound of a keycard sliding through the lock startles Ryan, and his breath catches in his throat until Spencer shoves the door open with his hip, his hands full of bags that he drops at his feet. "Hey, Ryan." Spencer's already dropped to the floor, pulling out boxes like they were Christmas presents. "Shoes!"

Ryan clears his throat and tucks his hands under his thighs. "Um, Spence?"

Three new pairs of shoes are lined up for Ryan's inspection, and there are bits of paper littered across the floor. Spencer lobs one of the pieces at Ryan, and he ducks and bats it away.

"Spence?" Ryan points his foot at the bag on his bed, raising an eyebrow.

And that seems to snap Spencer out of his footwear-induced euphoria. "Oh!" He looks surprised for a moment, but then his expression settles. "I almost forgot. I just thought – I've been looking for stuff on the internet, to help, you know, but." He shrugs, threading laces through one of his shoes. "No luck. So I just thought, it's been almost a month, yeah? And...help."

Ryan tilts his head, puzzling through Spencer's words. "So, you bought these, because...because?" And then it hits him. "Ew. I'm going to _bleed_." He wrinkles his nose and pulls his knees up to his chest, hiding under his arms.

Ryan peeks out at Spencer, whose mouth is pursed as he rubs his thumb along the in-step of an oxford with almost fanatical concentration. If he thinks about Spencer and ignores _what_ he bought Ryan, it's actually kind of a nice gesture. Thoughtful. Or something.

"There's also some ibuprofen, and a chocolate bar," Spencer says absently.

"The fuck? How do you – have you done this before?"

Spencer brandishes his foot at Ryan, showing off his new Nikes. "Uh huh."

"Oh." Okay. Spencer must be the best boyfriend ever. Huh. "Well...thanks?"

Spencer waves him off and Ryan stands for a moment, non-plussed. But he picks up the bag and tucks it in the cupboard under the bathroom sink, and it seems a little less weird.

::::

Ryan may be more grateful to Spencer than he's ever been. He's definitely underestimated – or, really, never thought about – girls' tolerance for pain. Every month, for fuck's sake. And every time he rips the paper off a new pad, he curses. "Have a happy period," seriously. Does anyone actually buy this propaganda shit? Ryan's not goddamned happy, fuck you very much, and he swallows two more ibuprofen dry before changing for rehearsal.

Thank god for Spencer, running interference everywhere without making it obvious that Ryan's likely to pitch a diva fit the likes of which no one's ever seen if anyone so much as looks at him sideways. Things will explode. Ryan feels sharp and bitter, like glass, and when he's not screaming onstage he's curled up in bed with a book and his Sidekick, sporadically e-mailing Spencer.

_bring more chocolate pls? xo rr_

_ovaries SUCK, man._

_what time's soundcheck tmr?_

And once, when it's half past three in the morning and Spencer's still out with Jon and Brendon: _think i can disembowel myself?_

That earns him an immediate response: _suck it up, princess. b back in 5_.

Ryan grins in spite of himself and reaches for a hoodie, pulling it over his head and shoving his hands in its pockets. It takes him a few moments to realize it's one of Brendon's. Ryan bites his lip, presses his nose to his shoulder and inhales. He folds his arms over his chest, except it's more like _under_ his chest now, weird, and he twists the cuff of Brendon's hoodie around his fingers, trying not to think about it.

When Spencer gets back, Ryan watches quietly as he gets ready for bed, idly tracing patterns on the bedspread with his fingertip. Once Spencer's under the covers, Ryan barely waits a moment before leaving his own bed and sliding in next to Spencer. He whispers, "Twelve minutes, Smith, I could have _died_," and wriggles closer, fingers crawling around Spencer's waist.

Spencer offers a tired smile to the ceiling but turns toward Ryan anyway, brushing the hair away from Ryan's eyes. "You okay?"

"Yes." Ryan nods. "No." He catches Spencer's wrist gently, lifting his arm so he can burrow further into Spencer's warmth. Spencer rubs his back lightly, and Ryan's voice is muffled against Spencer's shirt, soft and worn from too many washings, but that's what makes it so comfortable. "I miss him."

Spencer sighs, hugs Ryan a little. "He misses you too, you know." Their words are little more than breaths of air, dissipating before Ryan can grasp them and hold them tight, keep them close.

"I –" Ryan's glad that Spencer can't see his face. "I can't go back." It's something like cowardice, and Ryan hates himself for it, but he doesn't know what to do, how to fix this. "Not yet." The hope's still there, that something will change, that _Ryan_ will, and they can go back to the way things were.

Ryan pretends he doesn't know that's impossible.

Spencer doesn't reply, but he kisses the top of Ryan's head and shifts to get a bit more comfortable, letting Ryan wrap himself around him. Spencer murmurs, "'Night, Ry," and it's the steady rhythm of his breathing that lures Ryan into sleep.

::::

Brendon's not really gone, of course. He's there every day through interviews and rehearsals and soundchecks, and anyone who didn't know them would think that everything is peachy. He and Ryan talk, sit side by side; there's no yelling, and any awkward silences are covered by Spencer, usually, but sometimes Jon, too. Sure, Zack might notice that Brendon skirts Ryan a bit, leaving almost a whole foot between them before Brendon launches himself at Jon, knocking him back and pressing his face into Jon's neck as Jon laughs and ruffles his hair.

But there are only four people that actually know how wrong things are. Watching Brendon blow a wet raspberry over Jon's collar bone – "Gross, dude, I don't wanna know where that tongue's been!" – Ryan's stomach clenches and he thinks that maybe he knows best of all, even though he wishes he didn't.

_I want to –_

_I'm sorry._

_Hey, can we –_

_Please?_

Fuck it. Ryan can't figure out how to start this conversation, even in his own head. There's never a right moment, anyway, and Brendon's still infuriatingly affected around him, all bright smiles and veiled eyes. Ryan can't read him; it's like he's lost all judgment with Brendon. Is he giving Ryan space and time, being fucking _perfect_ and just waiting for Ryan to come back around? The idea of Brendon being more sympathetic in absence then when Ryan was there, needing, is priceless, really. But the alternative is even more unsettling, that maybe Brendon's actually given up on them, not going after Ryan because he simply doesn't want to, and Ryan's fucked this up for good.

He can't figure any of it out, but it feels like he's spinning toward the breaking point, to hell with mixed metaphors, and Ryan can't stand being so far from something so close.

The only chance he gets to let go a little, give into himself for a few stolen moments, is onstage. Now Ryan watches Brendon as much as he does Ryan, their orbit charged with energy that has not outlet. With the screams of the crowd and Brendon's voice tucked in his ear monitor, Ryan rides the thrum of electricity, gives into it, chases it until he's pressing himself against Brendon's side, blinking sweat and bright lights out of his eyes. He feels Brendon stiffen a little, catches a flicker of confusion in his narrowed eyes, but it's gone in a blink. Brendon shakes it off, impeccable fucking showmanship, and Ryan wants to shake him, make him listen and see and feel again. Anger, desire, fear, it all makes Ryan reckless, and he throws himself into it, flirting shamelessly through the rest of the set, sliding to his knees for Brendon and singing his own words back at him, _a better fuck_.

He tells himself he's just putting on a good show for these kids who have paid good money for a good time, but when Ryan's handed off his guitar, he avoids the dressing room and retreats to the hotel alone. He kicks off his shoes and one hits the wall with a thud, the other landing halfway across the room. In the bathroom he blinks at his reflection, opens a jar of cold cream and smears it over his cheekbones.

All that hype about tension, chemistry, whatever, making things – the shows, the music, _them_ – better, it's utter bullshit. Tension is just tension, and it leaves Ryan sweating and shaking, uncertain and fucking trashed, that's all. He doesn't feel better, and maybe angst is a commodity but this certainly isn't a price he'd pay to write good songs, sell more albums. It's not worth it, he doesn't fucking want this.

Ryan wipes his face off, sheds his costume, doesn't bother with pajamas. He falls into bed, asleep inside of five minutes.

::::

So being a rock star fucking sucks sometimes, but there are still perks. Cheering fans, free swag, nice digs – the usual - as well as the less tangible benefits, like being able to make requests for almost anything without anyone batting an eyelash.

Ryan doesn't ask anyone for what he wants, but thanks to a discreet website and an unquestioning courier, he gets it anyway. He picks up the plain brown box at the front desk and stashes it in his luggage before the others can notice. The whole thing makes him slightly queasy, but he can't ignore the flush that rises in his cheeks. It's there in his mind, the pictures from the website: plain, realistic, no purple sparkles or shit and nothing that vibrates, god forbid.

It's just a cock. A _dildo_, his mind supplies unhelpfully. Ryan shudders and shakes his head. He still can't believe he went through with it, such a stupid whim, and now it's here and he's bought a _sex toy_.

It's not even for sex, not really, even though Ryan can't quite articulate what it _is_ for. With every passing day, the likelihood of him magically waking up one day with his own dick again seems to wane. He's getting used to the way things are because he has to, but that doesn't stop him from wishing he could be himself again and have what he had, without all these fucking complications.

Not to mention the fact that Ryan hasn't gotten off in more than a month, jesus. For weeks he couldn't stand the idea of touching himself, until one morning when he woke up before Spencer and just thought, _fuck it_. He shut his eyes tight and slid his hand down his stomach and tried to jerk off, but it was weird and dry and uncomfortable and it simply didn't _work_.

He thinks of Brendon, and his gut twists. Memories that used to turn him on now make Ryan shy away; things are too different now. As much as he wants Brendon, even now, the idea of trying again with him while Ryan's like this freaks him out. It's too much, too wrong.

Which still doesn't explain why Ryan went impulse shopping on the internet.

He's a little anxious, pacing across the room and back. He checks his watch. Spencer should be back in a half-hour before they'll all head out for dinner, but that's enough time, right? Just to try it out, like.

Ryan uncovers the box and locks himself in the bathroom, leaning back against the door. He pries the lid open and tosses the packing paper in the wastebasket, and there it is, sealed in sterile plastic, along with a black nylon harness. Blinking, Ryan wrestles with the packaging for a moment before it comes free and the cock jumps a little in its plastic mold. That's going straight back in Ryan's bag; the thought of anyone finding it is utterly mortifying. Especially since there are instructions. With pictures, for Christ's sake.

Ryan picks up the harness, stretching it between his hands. _Which...where?_ He eventually figures it out, though, loosens the straps before cautiously stepping into them and pulling the harness up over his pants. So far, so good?

Taking a breath, Ryan curls his hand around the toy, and it's a bit surprising to feel the supple weight in his palm. It bends a little as he slides it through the harness, and when Ryan tightens the straps around his hips, the base is snug against him. He closes his eyes, fists the shaft lightly, and it's not real or perfect but it's a hollow sort of comfort, still. Something.

Ryan swallows hard and blinks, and a glance at his watch tells him Spencer'll be back any minute.

He tucks the package back in his luggage, but later that night after Spencer's dead to the world Ryan pulls the toy out again, twisting under the covers until the straps lie flat over his hip bones. He curls onto his side and, for a few moments, he just holds the cock and _pretends_. Imagines himself, whole and safe, remembering and forgetting at the same time. It's calming, a little, and Ryan exhales, lets his eyes fall shut. Just for a moment, normal.

::::

"You're fucking miserable, Ross."

Jon cuffs Spencer over the head. "What Spencer here is trying to say, dear boy, is that we want you to be happy – "

" – to stop moping – "

" – and to blossom like the delicate flower that you are."

Ryan turns away, gritting his teeth. He can't decide who he wants to smack first, but Jon can apparently read his mind like a Jedi and envelops Ryan in a hug from behind, pinning his arms to his sides. Jon's nose presses behind his ear, nuzzling. "We love you," he whispers, and his breath tickles Ryan's hair. "We all do."

Ryan sags a little, and then Spence is there in front of him, butting their foreheads together and sliding his arms around Ryan's waist, pulling Jon even closer. Ryan's being fucking tag-teamed, and he knows it, but at this point he doesn't really mind. Part of him's even secretly grateful to be sandwiched between them, to be taken care of, just for a little while. Ryan closes his eyes, face pressed against Spencer's shoulder. Maybe Spencer and Jon can fix this, and when he opens his eyes everything will be okay.

Ryan curls his hands in the back of Spencer's hoodie, and he has to clear his throat before he trusts himself to speak. "What do I do?"

"Easy," Spencer smirks, Ryan can feel it against his hair. "Talk to him, dumbass."

Jon's hand shifts between them as he flicks Spencer in the stomach. "Ow, fucker."

"Don't listen to him, Ry." Jon pauses. "Or do, it's good advice, but pretend he's playing nicely. You never shared your tow-truck in the sandbox, did you, Spence?"

Spencer shoots back, "Not with you, Walker, no way." Ryan's grin is hidden, but it's there.

Jon turns his attention back to Ryan. "You know he misses you, right? Apparently my hugs aren't as good as yours." Ryan rumbles his disagreement, shifts to nose Jon's cheek. "You know Brendon. He's a little slow on the uptake with these things, but he's worried. He'll listen. He wants to."

Ryan sighs. "I don't know what to say. I'm a _girl_."

"You are not, dickwad," Spencer snaps, but it's reassuring this time, more than Ryan can say. "Just try." He feels Jon shrug behind him.

Ryan's really got no argument other than _I'm afraid_ and he knows from experience that it never flies with Spencer. Usually that excuse ends up with them doing whatever Ryan didn't want to do in the first place, since Spencer tends to treat fears like dares. Even when they should be left alone, like the time that Spencer figured out Ryan didn't like heights and they ended up out on Spencer's roof in the middle of a rainstorm and Ryan narrowly escaped slipping off the edge. That fear is now perfectly legitimate, thank you, but Ryan knows that he can't say the same about this. Dealing with this - with _himself_ \- means dealing with Brendon.

"We're here, alright," and Spencer's voice is softer. "Not going anywhere." He emphasizes his point by squeezing Ryan and Jon's arms tighten around him, too, chin pressing into Ryan's shoulder as he nods silent agreement.

"Alright, alright." Ryan squirms, finds some breathing space again, but he catches Spencer's hand in his and Jon's in the other, a tiny smile tugging at his lips.

::::

There's not so much talking at first. There's Ryan, standing awkwardly in the hall, ducking his head to hide behind his bangs. There's Brendon, leaning against the open door, track pants riding low on his hips, a little smile just waiting in the wings.

And then there's talking all at once.

"Can I – "

"Come in, moron."

And there's touching, Brendon's fingers light around Ryan's wrist, and he follows, wide-eyed. _It can't be this easy_.

No, but it's not going to be as hard as Ryan thought. Brendon drops into one of the plushy chairs, and maybe Jon's presence has been rubbing off on him because he slouches, relaxed, pulling one ankle onto his knee. His eyes are bright, watching Ryan, but it's welcome. Brendon's not acting right now; he's his usual eager self but tempered, somehow, more patient than Ryan ever would have expected.

He perches on the edge of his chair, knees almost touching Brendon's. Close, please, he wants to ask, but not too much. And Brendon smiles, like he's heard Ryan, bumps their legs together lightly and murmurs, "Hey, you."

Ryan's cheeks warm. "Hey." It occurs to him that Brendon had probably expected him, that Spencer and Jon might have orchestrated this whole thing, helping Brendon the same way they've been helping Ryan. Not long ago he would have resented their interference, insisted that he could take care of his own shit, alright. But Ryan's been trying to deal by himself, and a fucking lot of good it's done him.

Maybe this is the way, letting the people that care about you lend a hand, and being strong enough to accept it. He's lucky, really, to have Spencer and Jon. And Brendon. Maybe this is the first step.

Ryan reaches out, tentatively touches Brendon's hand resting on his knee, and Brendon's fingers curl around his own. "I'm sorry," Ryan says softly, watching their hands. "I didn't mean – I don't know, I'm – "

"Hey, easy, Ry." Brendon leans forward and Ryan glances up, meets his eyes. It clicks in his mind that Brendon really does understand, or at least he's willing to try, which is almost the same, just as good, and Ryan really is the luckiest bastard around. "Breathe, okay? We've got all the time in the world," Brendon says, shifting his wrist to check his watch, "or at least until soundcheck. We'll figure this out."

Brendon sounds so confident, so absolutely sure that things will be okay, and Ryan can't resist, doesn't want to anymore. He nudges Brendon's foot back to the floor, rearranging his limbs and crawling into Brendon's lap. He wraps his arms around Brendon's neck and smells soap and sugar and something vaguely floral. Ryan settles, resting against Brendon's chest, closes his eyes and exhales.

Brendon's arms are easy and familiar around him, finally _something_ that Ryan recognizes, and he's missed it more than he can say. Suddenly words are spilling out of his mouth, the confusion and the anger and the fear of the past weeks that have felt like months, all tucked quietly into the circle of Brendon's embrace. Brendon's almost silent, occasionally humming assent into Ryan's hair, just listening and doing everything, being everything, that Ryan couldn't ask for.

Eventually Ryan's words peter out and there's just a companionable hush and the sounds of their breathing.

"I'm sorry, too," Brendon whispers. "I was an ass." He grins against Ryan's temple. "I can't promise I won't be in the future, but I'll try my best. And when I am, just hit me, okay? Don't go away again. We can talk, or yell, or whatever. Just. Stay?"

Ryan tightens his grip and lifts his head, presses a chaste kiss to Brendon's lips. "Deal. We're both idiots." He tucks his face into the crook of Brendon's neck and pauses, faltering.

"Bren? What if...what if I don't change back?"

Ryan feels Brendon sigh, his chest rising and falling. "Doesn't really matter. You're you. We'll be fine." He nods decisively. "We are."

::::

Spencer raises an eyebrow when Ryan and Brendon arrive at soundcheck together. Ryan flips him off and Spencer looks smug. He likes to be right.

"So I have to move again?" Jon pouts. He spoils it a moment later by winking at Ryan, and for the first time in ages Ryan feels light. He laughs, and soundcheck passes with barely a hiccup.

Spencer nudges him on their way out, bends close to Ryan's ear. "If anything happens, call me this time, doofus. One-time get out of jail free card." Before Ryan can respond, Spence pulls away and raises his voice. "Actually, scratch that. Wake Jon."

"Hey!" Jon lopes to catch up with them and slings an arm around Ryan's shoulder. "Not fair. I say we vote Spencer off the island. I'm a much better best friend, Ryan. Choose me, I'll buy you Cheese Doodles."

There's a cry from behind them. "No fair!" Jon ducks toward Ryan as Brendon swats him over the head. "Jonathan Walker, how could you betray me like this? You're mine! I gave you my _flower_."

"The hell, Urie?"

Brendon gestures expansively. "My lavender conditioner! I _shared_ with you, I thought we had something special. What about Paris? You made promises! I am _bereft_ here, dude."

Jon clucks his tongue. "Poor baby. How can I make it up to you...Twinkies?"

Brendon looks like he's seriously considering the offer before he scrunches up his features and shakes his head. "You've lost me, Walker, and you'll never get me back, not even with junk food. And Ryan's mine!" He slips his arms around Ryan's waist and tugs him away from Jon. Brendon whispers loudly, "Don't fall for him, Ryan, he's a heartbreaker. I'll save you," and Ryan grins as Brendon turns back to the others. "Jon, go build a canoe with Spencer. With coconuts!"

Everyone's shouting and laughing, and it really is like normal.

::::

The feeling lasts all afternoon, all evening, through a show that's relaxed and energetic all at once, just fucking brilliant, and Ryan's riding high as they tumble back to their rooms. There's back-slapping and hugs as they say goodnight; Ryan tugs Spencer close and kisses Jon's temple with a murmured, "You're the _best_, Jon Walker," and he feels fucking invincible for a few precious moments.

Brendon's arms are around his waist, turning Ryan into their room before kicking the door firmly shut. It's so good, everything, and Ryan leans back against Brendon's chest, lifts a hand to catch Brendon's neck and turns his head, eyes closed, silently asking for a kiss. Not even a breath and Brendon's there, mouth soft and parting with laughter, tongue teasing, and Ryan opens and it tastes like _always_ and _good_ and _more_. He twists to press himself flush against Brendon, teeth grazing lips and muffled sounds, and it's heady, intoxicating.

Ryan's fingers curl in Brendon's shirt and he's buzzing, thrumming all over like he's never felt this before, and he goes up on his toes, gains another few inches over Brendon and breathes hot against his mouth, trying to squirm closer, _in_, please. Kiss, yes, _oh_. Hips shift, Brendon's fingers tighten; Ryan can feel him in spaces that he's not used to and the flare of need is swallowed by _no_ and _wrong_ and he stutters, shakes, even as he lets out a frustrated growl and tries to keep Brendon close.

But Brendon's grip has eased a little, hands splaying over Ryan's back and petting, soothing, and he's trying to speak through Ryan's insistent kisses. "Hey – Ryan, I'm – " and there's a hand sliding up Ryan's chest, firm but gentle pressure; Brendon takes a small step back, steadying Ryan as he rocks back a bit, settles on his heels and blinks dazedly. "Ryan?"

Ryan's breath hitches and he swallows a whimper as his fingers twitch over Brendon's skin. It's so much, what he wants and what he's feeling, overwhelming and unfocused and he's fucking _trembling_ and he doesn't know what to do with it.

Brendon's watching him, and Ryan can almost see the questions on the tip of his tongue, but he doesn't have any answers. He wishes, desperately, that he did, and he exhales shakily, drops his head onto Brendon's shoulder. "I want...I want. But I can't. I don't know." Ryan's clinging, now, holding onto Brendon, and the heat under his skin burns like shame.

"Shh, hey, it's okay." There are kisses in his hair, on his forehead, cheek, nose, as Brendon tilts Ryan's head up with a finger under his chin. He's smiling a little, nuzzling. "Not gonna do anything."

Ryan shakes his head a little, hands curling into fists at the small of Brendon's back. "But you want – "

"I want to jump your bones?" Brendon raises an eyebrow, breathes laughter against Ryan's ear. "Well, yeah, of course. But it's no fun if you don't want it, too, so..." He leaves the question hanging until Ryan meets his eyes. "What do you want, right now?"

"Can we just." Ryan shrugs, squirming, and looks away. "Sleep, together?" He hopes it doesn't sound too needy, but this is what he's missed, _them_, and it's something he thinks he can handle, at least better than last time.

Brendon grins, reaching back to loosen Ryan's fists and twine their fingers together. "Bed, c'mon."

::::

Ryan sleeps more soundly than he has in weeks with Brendon's solid weight behind him, a leg tucked over Ryan's ankle and an arm wrapped around his waist, warm breath against his neck. As he drifts off, Ryan thinks that Brendon must have had a teddy bear when he was a kid. He must have had _something_ to snuggle for all those years.

When Ryan wakes up, Brendon is using his belly as a pillow and there's a drool patch on Ryan's t-shirt. He can't help but grin, really, as he ruffles Brendon's hair, which only makes him snuffle and smack his lips together. It's not often that Ryan's up before Brendon, and it's probably a good thing because if he woke to this every morning they'd never make it out of bed. Ryan shifts and re-settles against the pillows, watching Brendon lazily and dozing a bit until he really does have to get up.

"Brendon? Brendon. _Brendon_." A gentle nudge to his shoulder, and then a poke. "Urie, man. Up!" Brendon snorts a little and clutches Ryan's hip more tightly, leaving Ryan no choice but to roll him bodily away; Brendon sprawls loosely on his back with a surprised sound and blinks slowly, eyes unfocused.

"Wzuh?"

"G'morning, doofus." Ryan leans closer to press a quick kiss to Brendon's cheek, and Brendon makes a sluggish attempt to reach for him, but Ryan slips away easily. "Bathroom. Be right back," he promises.

Things are good, surprisingly so. Not perfect; Ryan still has breasts and other bits that he'd rather not have, and they still weird him out sometimes. Sex is still off the table, and no, Brendon, that doesn't mean on the floor.

Really, though, Brendon's being rather sweet about the whole thing. He gropes Ryan – backstage, onstage, offstage, pretty much anywhere he can get away with it – but it's appropriate groping, or something. It's kind of like starting their relationship over, in a way, discovering someone new – even if that someone is Ryan himself.

He remembers the days and weeks before he and Brendon first got together, when Brendon was all moony eyes and grabby hands because he didn't have a subtle bone in his body – still doesn't. But he was adorable, really, even more than usual, and he's pretty fucking adorable on any given day. Or annoying, but that's usually a matter of Ryan's changing moods rather than Brendon's remarkably predictable energy.

Anyway, it's hard to be put off by Brendon when he's really _trying_ to please and charm and maybe get into Ryan's pants a little too. He was everywhere, all the time, wherever Ryan happened to be, doing everything short of parading around with sign saying LOVE ME! LOVE ME!

There was, however, a blinding, glittered _HUG ME, RYAN ROSS_ sign that Ryan was pretty sure a fan had passed along to Brendon. At least, he hoped so.

But it worked, at any rate, and then there was all the stuff that Ryan will never admit to liking as much as he does – the hand-holding and the lazy make-out sessions, the random little touches that said, _I'm here_, and the botched attempts to fit into one bunk, muffled giggles answered by menacing growls from Spencer's bunk.

And this is sort of like that first flush, in a way, back to square one. But square one was fun, and Ryan's not complaining when Brendon catches his hand and tugs him into an empty booth after they've finished yet another radio interview, pressing Ryan back against the door and kissing him breathless. Ryan sways forward when Brendon pulls back with a cheeky grin, saying, "Couldn't wait." And with that, he's tugging Ryan along again, through the strange corridors and down the stairs because he's too impatient for the elevator, and they catch up with the others before they've had a chance to notice they were gone. Brendon beams and squeezes Ryan's hand, like it's all a big adventure.

::::

"So, could I jack off with you watching?"

Ryan snorts. "Exhibitionist."

Brendon's look of wide-eyed innocence doesn't fool him. "I was just making a suggestion!"

"Uh huh." Ryan toes the grass, thinking. It's a clear, sunny day, and he can't even remember which city they're in at the moment but there's a little park near the venue, just a few benches and some manicured trees on a patch of green. The place is quiet, though, and it's good to have a little bit of time and space to themselves. "I don't know. If you did, I'd want to do more, to help," and Ryan's voice lowers just thinking about it, "touch you, and..."

"Mmm?" Brendon leans closer, nuzzling Ryan's ear.

Ryan lets out a little breath and rests his head on Brendon's shoulder. "I don't know if I can handle that yet."

"Well," Brendon teases, "I am a lot to handle."

Ryan pokes him in the side, but he whispers, "I want everything, again."

Brendon's quiet for a moment, and Ryan can almost hear his hesitation as Brendon takes a deep breath. "Don't take this the wrong way, I'm just trying to understand, okay?" His voice is soft against Ryan's hair. "I get, now, why sex is out, but what about. What about..._our_ sex? Why not?"

It hurts. That's the crux of the matter, and Ryan still can't untangle the knot of feelings and instincts that make him balk. He's thought about it, maybe too much, and he doesn't know if he can put it into words. Hell, maybe there aren't even words for this sort of thing. But he wants to try, for Brendon.

"I think – " Ryan sits up a little and reaches for Brendon's hand on his shoulder, threading their fingers together. "Part of it is that this still doesn't feel like my body, like _me_." He draws Brendon's hand down, feels his elbow hook around his neck. "I don't know when it ever will, but right now, everything feels so different, and sex...sex would be like cheating." Brendon's silent; it's hard to tell whether this makes any sense, when it doesn't even in Ryan's head, but Brendon's thumb is rubbing little circles over his skin, and that helps. "Cheating on you, or me, I don't know. But it doesn't matter what kind of sex, y'know? It's still." He shrugs under the weight of Brendon's arm.

Brendon's nodding slowly, and Ryan swallows, his mouth dry; he watches Brendon and waits.

"I get that, I think." He squeezes Ryan's hand and offers him a little smile. "I mean, there's nothing to get. But I think I see more now."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," Brendon smiles, and it's such a relief just to tell him, to finally say these things out loud, and to have Brendon get it like this is just – Ryan can't even say. He kisses Brendon instead, smiling against his lips.

"So," Brendon murmurs, his nose brushing Ryan's. "Since your body doesn't feel like yours," and there's mischief in voice now, Ryan's just waiting for it, "does that make this a threesome?"

"You wish."

"Dude, sexy. Hot. That's all I'm saying," and they're both shaking with laughter; it's ridiculous, but it's Brendon being Brendon and Ryan being Ryan and they're together, and it feels fucking good.

::::

Brendon nudges Jon with his foot. "Have you two made up yet?"

"Well, we don't cuddle like we used to," Jon says mournfully, and Spencer elbows him in the side. "Ow! See? But I can't stay away. He's just too pretty." Spencer grins and purses his lips, making kissing sounds.

Brendon bats his lashes and mimics Spencer, only with more noise and a bit of tongue, because he's never one to be outdone. That's the main reason he and Spencer are never allowed to be let out by themselves, because it inevitably winds up involving permanent markers or fire extinguishers, and one or the other glowering for days after. Ryan honestly thought Spencer would go postal and kill them all after Brendon filled his favourite pair of shoes with Silly String. He's never found out how Spencer retaliated, because Brendon refuses to speak of it and Spencer just smiles ominously whenever Ryan asks.

But for all that, things are always fine when they've gotten even, and both Brendon and Spencer have all their limbs intact, even if their virtue may be a little suspect.

Right now, though, Ryan's trying to pay attention to _Galaxy Quest_ on the television, so he tugs lightly on Brendon's hair and murmurs, "Shut up, you," stopping his mouth with a kiss. He pulls back, grinning, and touches a finger to Brendon's lips. "Shh." Brendon's tongue peeks out again to lick Ryan's fingertip, and he can't resist playing, slipping his finger between Brendon's lips and teasing his tongue.

"Guys? Kindly refrain from foreplay in our presence," Spencer says without looking away from the movie. "Jon Walker, rub my back."

"What's the magic word?"

"_Now_."

Jon goes, though, peaceably shifting to straddle Spencer's lower back and starting to work on his shoulders. Spencer hums, satisfied, and Ryan rests his head on Brendon's chest as the television bathes them with flickering light.

::::

"I have a plan," Brendon announces after Spencer and Jon retreat to their own room.

"Does it involve sleep?"

Brendon jumps onto the bed, crossing his legs and swiping at the covers, pulling them away from Ryan. "Not so much, no."

Ryan groans and throws an arm across his face. "What is it, then?"

"Shush, you'll like it." Brendon catches Ryan's ankle, draws his foot into his lap and starts rubbing lightly. His thumb slides along the arch, massages the ball of Ryan's foot, and Ryan relaxes with a small sigh. "That's it..."

"What's in your head, Urie?" Ryan stretches languidly and blinks at Brendon.

Brendon grins, working his fingers over Ryan's toes. "This little piggy goes to market, this little piggy stays home." He lifts Ryan's foot to his mouth, tongue flickering over his skin, and Ryan twitches, giggling. "You ever play 'Hot, Cold' when you were a kid? Remember how it goes?"

Ryan nods, lips parting.

"Good. So call this an experiment, of sorts. You tell me when I'm cold, or warm, or," Brendon drags the tip of his tongue along the curve of Ryan's arch, "hot." He lowers his foot again, fingertips circling lightly over his ankle joint, up along Ryan's calf. Ryan shivers, goosebumps rising under Brendon's soft touch. "Deal?"

Ryan swallows and nods again. "Deal."

Brendon hums assent, fingers still trailing back and forth along Ryan's shin. "Well?" He cocks an eyebrow at Ryan, drumming a light rhythm on his skin.

"Um," and Ryan's half-breathless already and they haven't even _done_ anything, "warm. Yeah. Definitely warm." He arches his foot, brushing against Brendon's thigh because he wants to reach out and touch, but this seems to be Brendon's game, and Ryan doesn't quite know the rules yet. Brendon grins, though, so footsie is apparently a go, and Ryan wriggles his toes against Brendon's stomach.

Brendon chuckles before stilling Ryan's foot. "Don't mess with the plan, dude. Relax." He kneads his fingers deeper into the muscles, working his way up one calf and then the other. And Ryan does relax, breath slowing and evening out as he lets the tension unravel under Brendon's hands.

"Head and shoulders, knees and toes, knees and toes, knees and toes," Brendon sings softly, curling his fingers behind Ryan's knees. "Still warm?"

"Mmm hmm," Ryan murmurs drowsily, watching Brendon through half-lidded eyes. "'S nice."

Sliding his palms over Ryan's knees, fingertips grazing the hem of his boxers, Brendon asks, "And this?" He rubs gentle circles, thumbs lightly brushing the inside of Ryan's thighs.

Ryan's more alert now, and his hand twitches toward Brendon's before he can stop himself. _Relax_. Even before he answers, Brendon seems to know, his hands quieting, just resting on Ryan's thighs, waiting. Ryan quirks his mouth apologetically. "Still warm, just...not as much."

"Hey, no, that's good, honest." Brendon leans forward to kiss Ryan, brushing their noses together, and Ryan half-rises to follow Brendon's mouth, stealing another handful of kisses before Brendon grins against his lips. "This is supposed to be fun, remember?" And he's nudging Ryan back, his hands smoothing over the fabric of Ryan's boxers, tugging the hem of his t-shirt down, like he's dressing a little kid, but it's really kind of sweet.

Ryan settles again, sinking into the pillows, hands falling palm up on the covers. He breathes, and when Brendon's hands slide over his hips, soothing, Ryan smiles and finds himself trusting this, whatever this is.

"Aren't you glad I skipped 'Duck, Duck, Goose'?" Brendon waggles his eyebrows and Ryan laughs, canting his hips slightly and wiggling his ass. The temptation is too much, just to see Brendon's eyes light up as he drops his hands to go for a friendly grope and squeeze, and Ryan's fucking _giggling_ now, they both are. It's good, it feels wonderful and normal and safe, and by the time Ryan finally catches his breath his body is pliant against Brendon's, boneless and careless and happy.

Brendon's grinning, still chuckling as his hands find Ryan's, fingers threading and palms meeting. "Still warm?"

Ryan nods and tugs Brendon closer, arching up to meet his mouth. He tucks words into the corner of Brendon's lips, _thank you_, opens for Brendon and draws him in, tiny sounds and moans escaping as Brendon presses his hands against the mattress. "Yes, please," Ryan whimpers, feeling Brendon's thumbs stroking the inside of his wrists. "Brendon..."

"Mmmkay," Brendon breathes against his cheek, lips brushing over Ryan's skin, kissing his eyelids closed. "Now," there's a whisper in Ryan's ear, "now the plan involves sleep." Ryan's noise of protest is stifled by Brendon's mouth, gentle on his. He doesn't resist when Brendon shifts, rearranging their limbs and snuggling close behind Ryan, arms winding around his waist, hands squeezing Ryan's lightly. "Shh. Sleep."

And Ryan does, warm and content and a little turned on.

::::

"Have you touched yourself?"

Ryan narrows his eyes. "What?"

"You heard me." Brendon pops another french fry into his mouth. "Want me to speak up?"

"Fuck off." Ryan focuses on the napkin he's shredding in his hands.

"Spencer would tell me," Brendon muses.

"Would not." Ryan glares across the table and stabs his fork into one of Brendon's fries.

"Then Jon, he loves me."

"Jon doesn't know."

"Aha, so there's something to know!"

Ryan pulls a face. "I thought you were going to stop being an ass."

"Oh no," Brendon says, shaking his head. "I said I'd _try_. Devil's in the details," and that's got to be the dictionary definition of a shit-eating grin, right there. Ryan wants to smack Brendon upside the head – that's allowed, he's pretty sure, under their agreement – but now Brendon's salting a fry, dipping it in ketchup and reaching to offer it to Ryan.

Ryan holds out for a moment, scowling, but Brendon makes puppy eyes at him, and Ryan can only roll his own. He leans forward to take the french fry in his mouth, and if he nips at Brendon's fingertips, who can blame him?

::::

Early the next morning, though, Ryan's in the shower, willing the hot spray to wake him up. The lingering scent of Brendon's shampoo is strong in his nostrils; just a few minutes ago he'd poked Ryan awake, a towel slung low around his hips, water droplets clinging to his chest. If he'd been properly awake, Ryan would have licked them away, but the impulse is only catching up with him now. Imagine, his fingers skating over damp skin, tugging deftly at the terrycloth and pulling Brendon closer.

Ryan's hands find the next best thing, one splaying across his own stomach, the other gripping his thigh, and he can almost mimic Brendon's touch from memory. He takes a breath and tilts his head forward, feeling water sluice over his back, dripping from his eyelashes. Fingertips tease over his skin; Ryan shivers, surrounded by heat, and his stance shifts, one forearm bracing against the tile. Particular memories are blurring, overlapping, almost overwhelming, and Ryan's right hand drops thoughtlessly between his thighs, fingers seeking out damp warmth, curling and stroking.

Brendon's in his head, and his words take on a seductive tone now, _Have you touched yourself?_ Ryan bites his lip and nods to no one as he buzzes, thrumming, experimenting with lighter touches, more pressure, varying rhythms. It's different, of course, tingly and unfocused, and he doesn't really get anywhere after a few minutes but it's still nice, in a way, like a secret tucked away.

Ryan straightens, exhaling slowly and relaxing under the shower spray. As he shakes water out of his hair, half-turning, he catches a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye. Ryan blinks, and even through the steam he can see Brendon, now fully dressed, leaning against the bathroom counter, his fingers drumming an idle beat and his eyes fixed on Ryan.

Ryan ducks his head and flushes even hotter, but his mouth is already curving into a smile and he presses his palm against the glass door, fingers spreading and streaking condensation. For a moment Brendon watches him, still; Ryan counts one, two, three breaths before he moves, raising one hand to mirror Ryan's on dry glass.

Ryan's smile widens before he turns his attention back to washing himself, stretching languorously. The warm pull of muscles feels good, and there's a pleasant sense of cleansing that has nothing to do with the soap suds circling the drain.

Fifteen minutes later, as they head out the door, Brendon smirks. "So I'll take that as a yes, then?"

::::

"Brendon totally lied when he said you don't give good hugs," Ryan mumbles into Jon's shoulder.

"Didn't say that." Brendon butts his head against Ryan's, and Ryan can feel Brendon squeeze Spencer's arm behind his back. "Said he didn't give bony hugs, Ross."

Spencer chortles. "Hey!" Ryan tickles his side in retaliation but before Spencer can react, Jon pulls them all closer, squishing Ryan tight between Brendon and Spencer, his mouth pressed against Jon's temple.

"Group hug," Jon reminds them firmly, and it might have been endearing if Ryan could still breathe. He squirms, but Jon is surprisingly strong for a tiny, tiny man, and now Brendon's hand is on his ass and that's no help at all.

Ryan glares sidelong at Spencer and huffs, "Fine. Good show?" His voice is dangerously close to a whine as he pleads, "Lemme go!"

And Jon does let go, still smiling as they fall apart and Ryan gasps for air. "Good show. Let's kick some ass!"

Brendon catches Ryan around the waist as they all head out of the dressing room. "You are a bony hugger, man." He digs his chin into Ryan's shoulder and nuzzles his jaw.

"Fuck you," Ryan mutters.

"Would that help?"

::::

"Brendon Urie, if you laugh right now, you will never get laid again. _Ever_. I have ways and means."

Ryan's voice is stronger than he feels - maybe a bit too sharp, judging from the way Brendon's eyes widen, brows arching high before furrowing in concern. "What – "

Ryan interrupts him with a shake of his head. If he stops to think, or to let Brendon speak, he'll lose his nerve. Maybe it's showing, because Brendon actually listens to him, looking flummoxed but nodding. He scoots back on the bed and Ryan exhales, steadying himself.

"Okay then." Ryan crouches next to the bed, rummaging through his bag, and he flushes hot; cheeks, throat, chest, flaring like a warning. But he's decided to do this, he _needs_ to, and Brendon can be trusted, right? Well, okay, wrong question, but still. Be a man, Ross, just do it.

Ryan closes his eyes for a moment before rising, hands clutching the toy – _dildo_, and he really wishes his brain would shut the hell up – tightly. Brendon just looks confused until Ryan shrugs, his grip loosening a little, and then Brendon's shoulders are shaking and he's biting his lip, and there's not a sound but he's _definitely_ laughing and Ryan's tempted to throw the toy at him, but that probably wouldn't help matters any.

"Brendon!"

There's a squeak – a fucking _squeal_ – as Brendon tries to still himself, hands clasped in his lap and lips pursed tight as he stares at Ryan's face like he's determined not to look down at Ryan's hands. Really, it's as much as Ryan can hope for, and a few months ago he would have been laughing right along with Brendon. But this is _important_ now, and he needs to try and explain that to Brendon.

"Look," Ryan says softly, folding onto his knees and settling on the mattress, dropping the toy between them. "Just listen, please?" Now that his hands are free, he doesn't know what to do with them. They gesture uselessly for a few seconds until Ryan regains control, tucks them under his calves and starts talking to his lap.

"It's not...it's not a sex thing. I can't explain, but it helps, kinda." Ryan darts a glance up at Brendon and then back to his lap before he can blink. "I just wear it sometimes to sleep. I - I miss things."

Ryan looks up again, careful, but he holds Brendon's gaze this time, and he's not laughing now. Instead, his features have softened; he looks _sad_, and it startles Ryan a little. This wasn't what he'd expected at all, and he tries again.

"I guess you don't know what you've got until it's gone?" A wry smile curls his lips.

That doesn't really sound any better, but Brendon's shifting, murmuring, "C'mere," and he picks up the toy like it's any old thing and moves it aside to make room for Ryan. He curls up close against Brendon's side, the solid reassurance of Brendon's arm resting on his back, and Ryan's suddenly exhausted, wrung out. He yawns, face pressed against Brendon's t-shirt, already half-asleep but still trying to make his point.

The last thing Ryan remembers is murmuring sleepily, "It's just the way..."

Brendon kisses the top of his head and whispers, "It's just the way things are," and Ryan thinks he's dreaming.

::::

Maybe he dreamed the whole thing, because when Ryan wakes the next morning, there's no sign of the sex toy, and he's pretty sure he fell asleep on top of the covers, not under them. Right now, though, his face is smushed against Brendon's thigh, arms wrapped around his waist, and one hand is numb because even Brendon's not that light when he's sitting on you.

Ryan cranes his neck, squinting, to look at Brendon sitting up against the headboard.

"I wiggled up here without waking you," he says brightly. "You wouldn't let go, doofus."

Ryan grunts and flops back onto Brendon's lap. Something makes his eyelashes twitch – there are crumbs falling from his hair, little ones and big ones...and is that a cranberry?

Ryan grunts again, and Brendon answers, "Breakfast in bed!" There's a shower of crumbs as he gestures to the bedside table, where two Starbucks cups and an untouched scone sit. Ryan makes a half-hearted grasp at the coffee, and Brendon's got enough sense to hand him one of the cups. Inhaling the smooth dark scent, Ryan hums contentedly, feeling the warmth against his palm. He squirms upright, retrieving his hand from under Brendon and shaking sensation back into his fingers.

Ryan takes a tentative sip and smiles, nudging his nose along Brendon's jawline, kissing his chin. "Thank you, mmm."

Brendon speaks through a mouthful. "Thank Jon, he did the run." He swallows, grinning. "But it was my idea."

"Uh huh." Ryan settles with his coffee, placid enough even when Brendon's fingers comb through his hair, brushing stray crumbs from his head. They sit in companionable silence, Ryan almost dozing again, the lip of the cup resting against his own.

Brendon's never quiet for long, though.

"Can I watch you?" His tone is curious, but Ryan doesn't have a clue what he's talking about, so he takes another sip. Brendon presses on, eager. "Will you wear it, Ry? Can I see?"

Oh. _Oh_.

Not a dream, then. Ryan flushes, ducks his head a little to hide in the crook of Brendon's neck. He takes a breath; exhales, "Yes." Ryan grips his coffee cup tightly, and his fingers don't tremble.

::::

"What's wrong?"

Ryan starts, a fractured chord ringing out as his fingers slip. He clamps down on the guitar strings and swallows hard, not looking up. "What are you doing here? Didn't you have a thing, with Jon?"

"Nope." Spencer's using his serious voice, brusque and determined and a little impatient. He's not, really, Ryan knows; if he listens to Spence when he uses that tone and tells him what he wants to know, Spencer's more patient with Ryan than anyone else in the world. If Ryan refuses, though, Spencer slides right on past impatient to fucking stubborn, and Ryan can count on one hand the times he's actually managed to keep a secret from Spencer.

"I convinced Brendon to go with him to the interview," Spencer elaborates. Ryan doesn't say anything, just watches Spencer's shoes – black and blue Nikes today – until Spencer starts tapping his foot and clears his throat. "Eyes up here, Ross."

Fuck. Ryan looks up to find Spencer standing, one hip cocked and arms crossed over his chest, but he gives Ryan a small nod and his shoulders loosen. "Better," Spencer murmurs, and the back of Ryan's neck flushes hot. But Spencer's already pulling a chair close, settling in front of Ryan, their knees almost touching. "Now what's wrong?"

Ryan's jaw clenches. "Nothing," he insists, and Spencer's raised eyebrow tells him that he might just have missed the chance for an easy conversation. He shakes his head. "I don't know, okay?"

That's the truth of it, really. He doesn't know.

Spencer smirks a little. "Do I need to kick Brendon's ass?"

"God, no." Ryan wants to laugh, because it's ridiculous in a fucked-up sort of way, but he only manages a strangled chuckle. "Not his fault."

Honestly, Brendon's being fucking amazing, Ryan couldn't ask for anything more; he doesn't have the right to ask. Hell, he probably owes Brendon, Spence, Jon, all of them, they've been so good. All things considered, Ryan should be fine, he should be _happy_. All this support and understanding, but it's not that easy, no matter how much he wants it to be, no matter how hard Ryan tries to make things normal again. He's still different.

Spencer snaps his fingers, interrupting Ryan's train of thought. "Do I need to kick _your_ ass?" He watches Ryan for a long moment before adding quietly, shrewdly, "It's not your fault, either."

Ryan shakes his head again, biting down hard on his lip. He studies the guitar in his lap and sucks the inside of his cheek between his teeth. Closing his eyes, he whispers, "What's going to happen?"

He hears Spencer sigh, and his knees knock lightly against Ryan's. "I don't know," he answers, because Spencer tells the truth. Ryan's throat tightens, but Spencer continues, "I don't know, honestly, but things will work out, if you let them."

"How?"

"It's a mystery." Spencer squeezes Ryan's knee, and he's smiling softly when Ryan looks up. "You need to stop thinking so much." Ryan raises an eyebrow and Spencer laughs. "C'mon, just try it. Trust me."

Ryan shrugs, acquiescing. Spencer jerks his chin toward Ryan's guitar. "Show me what you're working on, yeah?"

::::

Ryan calls it an early night, slipping away from the guys hanging out in the downstairs lounge after the show. Digging out an ancient oversized Blink shirt that used to be Spencer's once upon a time, he changes for bed and brushes his teeth, spits in the sink. Everything's quiet; the splash of the water echoes as Ryan scrubs a towel over his mouth. He thinks about turning on the TV for company, but that's not quite it. He's just left his friends, too tired of being there, pretending to be himself. Ryan doesn't want to be alone, though, and he's not quite sure where he wants to be, but this is where he's ended up.

Pulling the bedcovers back, Ryan stills for a moment before reaching into his bag. He doesn't let himself second-guess as he slides the harness on, tugging the straps close, and he makes a little sound as the toy nestles against his pelvis. _Home_. Ryan shakes the thought out of his head, but he slides into bed, tugging the comforter up to his chin, and burrows into the warmth.

::::

There's a whisper; fingers brushing lightly over his temple, through his hair. "Ry? You awake?"

"Mmm?" Ryan nuzzles blindly into the touch. "Yeah, 'wake. Waiting up for you."

Soft laughter. "Good job there, Ross."

Ryan blinks, and Brendon's face comes into shadowy focus. "Hey...you. Bed." He reaches out, his hand landing clumsily on Brendon's arm. His skin is warm, downy hairs soft under Ryan's fingertips, and Ryan makes a pleased sound as he pets Brendon, mumbles, "C'mere," fingers curling around Brendon's wrist, tugging. "C'mere."

"Alright, alright," Brendon chuckles quietly, squeezing Ryan's hand before pulling away. There's the rustle of clothing, the dip of the mattress behind Ryan and a cool rush of air as Brendon slides beneath the covers. Ryan grunts softly, pushes back against Brendon, and there's warm breath on the nape of his neck. "Hey you," Brendon murmurs, nosing Ryan's hairline. Ryan sighs, and it would be so easy to slip back into sleep now, here, but that's not what he wants. He's sluggish, too tired to think, and _that's_ what he wants, to not think. Instead, to feel and touch and forget and remember. Please.

Ryan reaches back to grasp Brendon's hand, sliding it along his own thigh, up up up, waiting to hear the hitch in Brendon's breath when their fingers graze the harness strap. He's not disappointed; Brendon gasps and exhales his name, "Ryan," like it's something reverent, and Ryan flushes and smiles, squeezes Brendon's fingers and hums in response.

Brendon's hand trembles slightly under his own, but the hesitation is almost sweet now. Ryan rolls his hips a little, feels Brendon behind him, and Brendon's breath quickens in his ear. It's okay; Ryan knows that Brendon wants this, wants what he wants and nothing more, so it's okay for Ryan to hold his hand and show him, guide his hand along the curve of Ryan's hip until his knuckles bump against the toy, Ryan's almost-cock, and Ryan doesn't know if it's imagination or memory but he can almost _feel_ it, the imperceptible touch that draws a soft moan from his throat.

Brendon shifts, not moving his hand under Ryan's but stretching up onto his elbow, leaning over Ryan a little, and Ryan can't help but smile. He knows there's a question, a thousand, on Brendon's lips, but he doesn't need to ask them, and the thought makes Ryan practically giddy. He turns his face to press a kiss to Brendon's jaw, brings his free hand up to touch Brendon's cheek, draw him down for a proper kiss, soft and languid and answer enough as Ryan licks into Brendon's mouth and Brendon's tongue curls around his own.

A low sound rolls in Ryan's throat and he tugs Brendon closer, fingers rubbing the base of his skull, tangling in his hair, and he tugs Brendon's hand closer, too, wrapping it around Ryan's cock and holding him there. It's okay, it's better than okay, and he tells Brendon without words, nipping lightly at his mouth and twisting, arching into their joined fists. It's a little victory when Brendon relaxes, his grip slackening for a moment under Ryan's before squeezing again on his own, a little experimental but familiar; Ryan remembers what Brendon feels like, his favourite tricks and the ones he's learned to drive Ryan wild.

This isn't so different after all, still skin on skin; Ryan's fingers telegraphing Brendon's touch, like reading Braille, translating into heat and pleasure and, oh, need. The tendons in Brendon's hand shift as he twists his wrist and tugs, startling a moan from Ryan.

"So hot, Ryan," Brendon murmurs against his cheek, "you should see yourself." Ryan tosses his head thoughtlessly, his grip on Brendon slipping as Brendon takes over, stroking hard and fast, slow and playful, and there's no reason why Ryan should be squirming but he is, god, one hand curling around Brendon's wrist while the other meets Brendon's fist again, not guiding but just touching, feeling the pull and give of Brendon's muscles. God, if he'd been able to come from this he'd be a goner by now. As it is, Brendon's enjoying himself, teasing and playing with him, and every time Ryan opens his eyes Brendon's right there, that filthy little smile on his lips, and Ryan groans, writhing helplessly in Brendon's grasp. He doesn't know how much more he can take; if Brendon looks at him again like that he might just -

"_Brendon_..."

Ryan shifts suddenly, rolling to face Brendon, and that's enough to still Brendon's hand, make his eyes widen and his lips part, _yes_, that's what Ryan wants. "Want to touch you," he mumbles, lips moving along Brendon's jaw. "Let me, want to." Ryan tucks his face into the crook of Brendon's neck, still a little scared, wanting to hide but wanting this, too, so much. "So much, please."

Brendon's hand is on his shoulder and his voice is quiet in Ryan's ear, "No, it's okay, you don't – " but Ryan's already reaching into his boxers, curling his fist around Brendon and jerking him off steadily, cutting off his protest. Brendon inhales sharply and his hand brushes Ryan's lightly but Ryan doesn't let go, doesn't stop, just feels his own breath hot against his lips, pressed to Brendon's skin. Brendon's tense for another minute, but then he starts to unravel a little, breath picking up, and Ryan kisses his throat. As Brendon lets himself go, making little noises and moans, Ryan draws back slightly, just to watch Brendon, to watch what _he's_ doing to Brendon, what he can still do.

It's mesmerizing, really, to see Brendon like this, eyes half-closed and lashes fluttering, neck arched and hands grasping at the sheets as he falls to his back and Ryan moves with him, stroking his cock with a little twist, running his thumbnail under the head. Brendon's hips snap, and Ryan knows just how to finish this, a bit surprised at his own focus when he's not distracted by his own need or half-dazed from an orgasm. There's only Brendon and making it good for him, making it perfect, and Ryan's determined right now, ducking his head to lick Brendon's nipple, teeth grazing as he tugs just so, that should do it, and –

Brendon's hand fists tight in Ryan's hair as he cries out, hips jerking and shuddering, and Ryan eases him through the aftershocks, petting his thigh with sticky fingers and grinning. "Hey, you."

Brendon exhales hard through his nose and blinks muzzily at Ryan. "I think my brain leaked out of my ears," he groans. Ryan laughs and reaches for some tissues, turning back to Brendon and licking his own hand clean with a satisfied hum. "Not helping the brain situation, Ross," Brendon grouses, eyes fixed on Ryan's fingers.

"Don't worry, you don't need it anyway," Ryan smirks. "You're just the prettyboy frontman." But he bends forward to lick Brendon's stomach, making amends before cleaning him up properly and tossing the tissues in the garbage.

Brendon makes a contented sound when Ryan curls up with him again after tucking his toy back in his bag. Brendon hugs him closer and plants a kiss on the top of Ryan's head. "You okay?"

"Very." Ryan feels warm all over, pleasantly buzzing, and more like himself than he's felt in a long while. He nuzzles Brendon's collarbone, winding his arms around Brendon's waist.

"Need anything? Do you want me to – "

Ryan shakes his head. "Just this."

::::

There's a shift, after. Ryan can breathe again, a little more relaxed, and he doesn't even mind when Brendon cops a feel one morning as they're getting dressed. Spencer stops watching him like a hawk, even when he thinks Ryan doesn't notice. Nothing changes with Jon, but then again nothing really changed with Jon in the first place.

It feels like he's finally starting to fit into his own skin again. Somehow it's a little easier to be a girl knowing that he's still a boy; knowing that everyone else sees him, too. Brendon doesn't think twice about tussling with Ryan when they can't agree on which movie to watch, and Jon and Spencer don't hesitate in joining the dogpile with whoops and war cries. The bastards are heavy, fuck, but Ryan gives as good as he gets, pinching and poking until Brendon yowls and Spencer's wheezing with laughter, rolling off Ryan and ruffling his hair.

Life's good, a new sort of normal that Ryan thinks he could get used to. Hell, he _is_ getting used to it, and it's almost a relief to let go.

::::

"C'mon, hurry!" Brendon tugs Ryan's hand, running along the hallway and practically crashing into the door to their room.

Ryan catches his breath as Brendon slides his key card through the lock twice because he's too fast the first time. "What's the rush, asshole?" Brendon shoots him a look but doesn't answer until he's got the door open, pulling Ryan in. He doesn't even turn on the lights before he pushes Ryan back, his weight closing the door, and he'd stumble if it weren't for Brendon's hands fisted in his shirt. "Hey – "

"Want you." Brendon's fingers are already moving to unbutton Ryan's shirt. "That's the rush, man," he mimics, but Ryan can hear his grin. Brendon's words echo in his head, _man, man, man_, and without another thought, Ryan's hands are unbuckling his own belt, unzipping his pants before tugging impatiently at Brendon's shirt.

"You could've said."

Brendon's answer is muffled as Ryan yanks his t-shirt over his head; Brendon squirms and ducks to pull free and his hair's full of static, clinging to Ryan's fingertips. "C'mon," he urges, only to back into the edge of the dresser. "Ow, fuck."

Ryan rolls his eyes and flicks the light on. "Serves you right, dumbass." He toes his shoes off before shoving his jeans down and off.

Brendon straightens, rubbing his elbow and still grinning like a loon. "Love it when you talk dirty."

Ryan shakes his head but takes a step closer, shoving lightly at Brendon's shoulder and smirking. "Bed's that way." He shrugs out of his shirt, and he actually enjoys the way Brendon's eyes widen and zero in on his chest. His mouth parts a little and he doesn't move until Ryan pushes him again, nudging him backwards until his knees hit the mattress. "Do I have to do everything myself?" Brendon blinks and he's up again in a flash, ducking behind Ryan to rummage through his bag. He produces Ryan's toy with a flourish, eyes bright and hopeful, and Ryan shifts his weight to one foot, cocking a hip. "Well?"

Brendon's expression blanks in confusion; he's still crouched on one knee, and it really shouldn't be this easy to mess with his head. Ryan probably shouldn't enjoy it so much, either. He raises an eyebrow, waiting for Brendon to catch up, and it's almost as fun to watch the light bulb go off in his head. "Oh!" He grins eagerly, all teeth. "Can I – can I put it on you?"

"That would probably help, yeah." Ryan can't help grinning a little, too, especially as he watches Brendon try to figure out the straps, brow scrunched in concentration. "Here," Ryan offers, dropping down and catching Brendon's hands in his own, helping him adjust the straps. "See?" Brendon nods and Ryan tilts forward for a kiss, licking at Brendon's lips and smiling against his mouth. Brendon squeezes his hands before Ryan stands again, lifting a foot expectantly, and Brendon obliges, slipping the strap underneath and sliding his palm up along his calf, making Ryan hum a little and run a hand through Brendon's hair.

Ryan raises his other foot, and fuck it if Brendon isn't being a tease now, fingertips skimming lightly over his skin, raising goosebumps, and when he bends to kiss the side of Ryan's knee he has to grasp Brendon's shoulder for balance, exhaling raggedly. "Up," he insists, and Brendon palms his thighs, pulling the harness up as he rises, pressing a damp kiss to Ryan's belly on his way. "Fuck," Ryan hisses, arms tightening around Brendon's neck.

"Want to?"

Brendon's eyes are dark and Ryan's not quite sure what he's thinking, but he knows what he wants, and maybe it's just the way Brendon's thumb is tracing Ryan's hipbone but it just sort of slips out, "Want to fuck you," and Brendon stills, wide-eyed again. Ryan swallows hard but doesn't look away, waiting, waiting –

"Yes. Please."

\- and Ryan's hugging Brendon tight, muffling a hoarse sound against his shoulder. He hadn't meant to say it, not like that, but it's _okay_ now and he wants it, so much, he's actually going to do this, with Brendon; and fuck, he really _is_ a girl.

Luckily, Brendon's whispering in his ear, words that are more than enough to distract Ryan. "Want to blow you," Brendon murmurs, kissing the spot just behind Ryan's jaw. _Yes, god_, and Ryan closes his for a moment, taking a steadying breath; slides his hands down Brendon's arms, warm skin and muscles, until he finds Brendon's hands again and they work together, fitting the harness snugly around his hips, and if Ryan whines low in his throat it's just because he _wants_. This, now, yes.

God, he doesn't even have to wait or ask; Brendon's _there_, sliding to his knees, hands settling on Ryan's hips, and he's looking up at Ryan through his lashes and licking his lips, and fuck knows how Ryan's feeling so much, so hot, when he's just got a little bit of plastic and nylon in place of a dick. But he groans softly and when Brendon just keeps watching him, thumbs rubbing little sensitized circles on Ryan's skin, looking for all the world like the cat who's cornered the canary and is just biding his time, and Ryan thinks, _no way_. He curls a hand around his own cock, canting his hips, and the tip of the toy bumps Brendon's lips. Brendon watches him still, eyes bright, until Ryan rests his free hand atop Brendon's head, petting him for moment, fingers threading through his hair; Ryan cradles his skull and Brendon purrs, low, and when Ryan tightens his grip ever so slightly Brendon's already moving forward, eyes drifting shut as he opens his mouth to take Ryan in.

Ryan can't feel it, not in the usual sense, yet he _does_, feels the tug of desire and Brendon's mouth pulling him forward, feels Brendon's lips kiss his fist when he takes Ryan in deeper. And he can _see_, fuck, with more clarity, the way that Brendon's cheeks hollow, the way his jaw stretches, the way his nostrils flare as he works Ryan with fervent effort, and Ryan can't tear his eyes away. Call it Pavlovian, call it whatever you want, but Ryan _feels_ it. His breath quickens to pants, warmth pools in his groin; his weight sinks into Brendon's sturdy, reassuring hands, and Ryan gasps, "Brendon – I'm," fist clenching briefly in his hair. Brendon heeds the warning, looking up at Ryan without pulling off, and it's only belatedly that Ryan realizes he needn't have warned at all. But fuck, "that felt good," he manages, his whole body shaking a little, muscles weak. Brendon steadies him and draws back a little, the toy resting on his lower lip, shining with spit. "Really fucking good."

Ryan chuckles hoarsely and shakes his head in amazement. As his thoughts start to slot back into place he taps his fingers against the nape of Brendon's neck, murmuring, "You, here. Up." Brendon sweeps his hands up Ryan's sides, keeping him balanced and leaving tingling heat in their wake. Ryan pulls Brendon close again for a greedy kiss, coaxing a litany of sounds from Brendon's throat, swallowing each one for his own.

Brendon's hands press and flex over Ryan's shoulderblades as he catches Brendon's lip lightly between his teeth, tongue swiping across the flesh. Brendon whines a little when Ryan rubs his earlobe between his fingertips, one of the little tricks that will get Brendon every time.

"My turn," Ryan growls softly, kissing the corner of Brendon's lips.

He steps away and watches Brendon sway toward him a little, hands reaching out. "Bed," Ryan reminds him, and Brendon falls back onto the mattress, a grin stretching across his face. He looks relaxed, content, even as his cock juts across his hip, flushed and ready; Brendon tucks his hands up behind his head and watches Ryan with soft eyes, just so _open_ in this moment.

Ryan only hopes that Brendon will understand when he asks quietly, "Turn over?" He doesn't trust himself to add _please_, but he means it.

And Brendon gets it. Ryan tries not to to see the flash of concern in his eyes before Brendon complies, shifting onto his stomach without a word. He tucks his cheek against his folded arms, gaze still heavy on Ryan. Ryan can't escape entirely, and he's not trying; he _wants_ this. It's just too much, all at once, and he needs to be strong right now, can't fall apart, and if he's that close - if Brendon can see - Ryan's not sure he'll be able to keep himself together.

He takes a breath and steps forward, pulling condoms and lube from the bedside drawer before crawling onto the bed and over Brendon. Ryan dips his head to mouth the skin of Brendon's shoulder, kissing and licking and whispering, "Thank you," nosing the curve of his neck. Brendon merely hums acknowledgment and settles under Ryan's touch, but it feels like a benediction. Ryan swallows and rocks back on his heels, resting on Brendon's thighs. His hands splay across Brendon's shoulders, sweep down along his back, fingers circling and kneading lightly, and Ryan's almost transfixed by the minute sensations travelling through his fingertips, thrumming through his whole body.

Brendon shifts, arching a little under his hands; Ryan blinks dazedly and presses his thumbs over the dimples in Brendon's lower back, the perfect little grooves. He moves with more intent now, palming Brendon's hips, his ass, and Brendon groans softly, tucking his face in the crook of his arm. Ryan folds himself closer; follows his hands with his mouth, dragging wet kisses across Brendon's skin, the curve of his ass, until Ryan's nuzzling up between his thighs, inhaling the thick heady scent of sex and sweat. Brendon's trembling now under his hands, and Ryan hears a muffled whine, his own name spilling broken from Brendon's lips, a plea that he can't ignore.

"Shh," Ryan murmurs, soothing as he spreads Brendon's cheeks and licks a slow, deliberate path along the crease, dropping back to tease his entrance. He hums against Brendon's skin, feels the tremors rippling through him, and Ryan pushes, _in_, breaching the ridge of muscle with his tongue, licking inside, moving with Brendon as he arches and cries out.

Ryan doesn't let up; he rides out the shudders with Brendon, tongue lapping in small strokes, waiting to feel Brendon relax into it, waiting for the urgency and sudden need to ebb. There's no way Ryan's going to rush this, he thinks, as Brendon sighs long and low, his entire body slowly loosening under Ryan's touch. This is what he wants to do to, with, _for_ Brendon. There's something about kissing Brendon like this, where they fuse, thrusting his tongue inside and feeling Brendon unravel under the gentlest touch.

"_Ryan_..."

Ryan hums against Brendon's skin and pushes deeper, spreading him open with his thumbs, working him until Brendon practically growls, "Fucking hell," and Ryan grins and pulls back, sucking two fingers into his own mouth before easing one into Brendon, twisting his wrist a little and crooking the tip of his finger.

"Better?"

Brendon whines. "You're a bastard, you know that?"

"Uh huh," Ryan answers, pushing another finger into Brendon and hearing his breath catch, feeling his muscles clench. "I could stop."

Brendon pushes himself up, turning his head to glare at Ryan. "Jackass."

Ryan smirks and reaches for a condom with his free hand, tearing the packet with his teeth. Brendon's watching him hungrily, and he's bearing down on Ryan's fingers. Need is painted along the lines of his body and Ryan lets himself touch, stroking Brendon's skin, feeling the dampness of sweat between his shoulder blades, the quiver of his ribs as he inhales, the curve of his hip. Brendon's still watching him with dark eyes, open, and Ryan bends forward to kiss his temple; to murmur against his skin, "Close your eyes? It's me."

He nudges Brendon's face away and closes his own eyes for a moment before sitting back and rolling the condom on, managing the lube one-handed and curling his fingers inside Brendon, just a little reminder. For both of them, maybe.

It's a little awkward for a moment, cumbersome and unfamiliar as Ryan lines up the toy, pressing the tip against Brendon and his own fingers, pulling out and pushing in before he has a chance to think twice, bracing himself over Brendon's back. And maybe it's a little too fast, too much, because Brendon inhales sharply and Ryan catches himself, one hand on Brendon's hip, petting and muttering, "sorry," suspended in uncertainty.

He can't quite gauge things when he's not inside Brendon like he's used to, and Ryan doesn't move until Brendon pushes back a little, and thank god he doesn't say anything; Ryan's already chastising himself, _slow, fuck, make this good_.

But it gets better. Brendon rolls his hips and Ryan sinks forward, letting out a shaky breath. He can feel Brendon again, soft flesh against his hips, thighs pressed together, and it's easier to find his way. He slides a hand over Brendon's shoulder, stroking and then squeezing a little, drawing Brendon up onto his elbows and knees as Ryan pulls back. He can't feel much of a change, but it's clear that Brendon does, his muscles taut and rippling as he moves, head dropping low and practically inviting Ryan to lay his hand on Brendon's neck. His pulse jumps under Ryan's thumb, and Ryan wants to ask, _okay?_, but then he thrusts in and Brendon groans, and Ryan knows that sound. He doesn't need to ask.

It just gets easier, rediscovering touches and sounds, finding familiar rhythms, and Ryan can close his eyes and remember, pretend, losing himself in sense memory and the feel of Brendon beneath him, grounding them both.

Brendon whines sharply when Ryan snaps his hips, and he remembers this, too, the unconscious cues he's learned to read, to seek out and trigger, to render Brendon helpless with pleasure. It's all coming back, and if it were some other time, Ryan might tease and deny, but right now he's suffused with relief and elation, as eager as Brendon. He reaches for Brendon's cock, jerking him hot and tight and rolling his hips deeply, urging him headlong into orgasm until Brendon gasps and shudders, spilling over Ryan's hand, elbows giving way as he collapses onto the mattress.

Ryan's flushed and panting, half-bent over Brendon's back as he tries to steady him. His own knees are about to give, though, and he tumbles onto his side, tugging Brendon with him, avoiding the wet spot. Brendon grunts, laughing a little, but he's pliant in Ryan's arms, his heart thumping under Ryan's hand.

And Ryan can finally ask, "Okay?"

"Are you kidding?" Brendon grins and rolls his eyes.

Ryan presses his forehead to Brendon's shoulder, exhaling quietly. He shifts to pull out and Brendon suddenly sobers, shaking his head and reaching back to hold Ryan's hip. "Please. Stay?" Ryan blinks, pauses. "Like feeling you inside me. Been awhile." Brendon's grip tightens until Ryan nestles closer again, tentatively, but then his hand settles and smoothes along Ryan's thigh and he relaxes a little, presses a kiss to the nape of Brendon's neck. He hugs Brendon, fitting himself full-length along his body, and Ryan doesn't even mind the way his breasts flatten against Brendon's back.

::::

Over a bowl of cereal Ryan confesses, "I thought I might have changed back overnight."

Brendon swallows the last of his Pop-Tart and grins. "Man, if my ass had that sort of power, I could patent it and make a mint." He pauses, though, dropping his head to nuzzle Ryan's cheek. "I'm sorry," Brendon murmurs. Even though there's nothing to apologize for, Ryan appreciates the effort and he turns toward Brendon, touches his chest lightly, fingertips tracing his collarbone, the line of his throat. "Couldn't things be okay, like this?" Brendon's Adam's apple bobs under Ryan's thumb . "Aren't they?"

Ryan thinks for a moment. All things considered...he's lucky. "Yeah, I think so." Or it will be okay; they'll get there.

Brendon flops onto the chair across from Ryan, lifting a foot to nudge Ryan's knees apart. "And one day," he says, toes tracing a line down Ryan's calf, "you're going to let me touch you."

Ryan starts to protest, "I didn't mean to – "

Brendon cuts him off. "It's okay, I get it. I'm just saying, I want to."

Ryan flushes. "I don't even know how – "

"Neither do I," Brendon grins. "But we'll figure it out. I won't take no for an answer."

Ryan can only shakes his head and bump his foot against Brendon's, trying to hide his smile.

::::

"No way!"

"C'mon, Spence, you've done it before. Please?"

Spencer shakes his head. "That was one time. You don't have a piano tied to your ass, Ross."

"That's not the point. Jon, help me out."

Jon raises his hands. "Nuh uh. I only do it if I'm getting laid, sorry."

"Brendon?"

"What?"

"It's your duty," Ryan explains.

Brendon's brow furrows. "What is?"

"I need you to buy pads for me."

"_What_?"

Ryan grits his teeth. "I'm asking nicely."

"Not a chance, dude." Brendon pauses before adding brightly, "I heard orgasms help relieve cramps, though. I can help you there!"

And somehow, this feels normal.


End file.
